Where The Flames Turn Blue
by our dancing days
Summary: "My love pounds in my head, like a bullet through a drum. Have you ever heard a beat louder, love?" Lily, Scorpius, and catching falling stars. / freeverse, for Kaia.


**Title: **Where The Flames Turn Blue

**Summary: **"My love pounds in my head, like a bullet through a drum. Have you ever heard a beat louder, love?" Lily, Scorpius, and catching falling stars. / freeverse, for Kaia.

**Prompts: **HPFC gift-giving challenge - _LilyiiScorpius_

**Recipient: **Kaia (it's jusst me)

**Notes: **(okay, these are all going to be frantically out of order, but I managed to churn this one out on time, so I might as well post it, yeah?) Anyway, this is part of my GGE project, for the wonderfully talented Kaia. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

ix.

"_Because God knows, we have smoked the stars, made wishes on falling ashes." - _Andrea Gibson, _Stay._

* * *

I don't think you quite understand

the concept

of wishing on stars,

because wishing on stars

is like wishing on nightingales or birthday cake candles;

it's like a child's dream and a child's hope

wrapped into a little celebration,

because stars fall

_all the time,_

but this one's special 'cause we're watching it.

Do you understand yet, Lily?

It's like four leaf clovers;

how many are there, in the world,

do you think?

Do you care?

'Course not, because you're still happy when you find one,

because it's _yours, _and _you've _never seen one

before,

have you, love?

It's like counting down the petals

and still believing it is fate

when they read,

"_He loves you."_

Life is full of 50/50 chances.

It doesn't mean destiny's flipped the coin.

Do you care yet?

.

I spent so long

carving my dignity into my hands

(because my mother said that ink can be washed)

and I scratched my destiny

into my wrists,

(because my mother told me that blood, eventually,

can run clear if you add enough water).

Father said,

_ink stains and blood splatters are what make family trees. _

Mother said,

_don't listen to your Father,_

_Scorpius, _

_you are my son and my son only, do you understand me?_

I decided not to listen to either of them.

What is blood, after all?

Certainly not family.

Certainly not love.

And does ink truly poison blood?

Do lines on the family tree, marriage lines that lead to black marks;

do they ruin our family?

No.

Ink represents family more than blood ever will.

Do you understand that, Lily?

You might be the only one.

.

My love pounds in my head,

like a bullet through a drum.

Have you ever heard a beat louder,

love?

It stops time

and runs too quickly

because we're in slow motion

going 70 miles an hour

on a motorway that won't end, not for us.

You were going to be Head Girl; do you remember?

Except you got to Kings Cross station,

bought a ticket,

and left

at 10:59 just as the doors closed.

You wished for the stars to save you,

and guess what, Lily?

They didn't.

So smoke your cigarettes

in bars that look the other way.

Do your drugs

in apartments of men who don't care either way.

Drink your heart out

in a little girl's princess bedroom

where you used to sleep,

once upon a time.

But don't you dare come to me

and cry;

because, Lily love, you cry ashes

and you cry sugar

and you cry booze.

You leave lipstick stains on my collar

and cigarette burns on my cheek.

So did you know,

I bought an ashtray,

just for you;

tell me, darling, was it worth it?

.

Sometimes you come to the family gatherings,

posh dos with black ties and pressed shirts,

and sometimes I get dragged along,

next to Al, and Rose,

and-

I go outside,

and wait where the flames turns blue.

You take another drag of yet another cigarette,

and I cry inside, for you,

because I cry blood splatters and ink stains,

and you cry sugar and ashes.

This is what we're made of, Lily.

I am liquid.

You are solid.

The funny thing is,

I always wonder if the stars are solid,

or if they're just an illusion the night sky tricks us into.

Are they really liquid,

like liquid nitrogen and tobacco,

exploding over and over

until they die out, dry up?

Mother tells me that stars are made of gases, not liquids, not solids,

and I should stop reaching for them anyway,

because you can't catch smoke.

Father tells me that you can always catch a falling star,

_if you wait long enough._

.

I think I might even love you, Lily;

because _this is love,_

wondering what stars are made of

and still hoping to catch them;

making wishes on falling ashes.

I met you at Hogwarts, and no, it wasn't love at first sight,

and no,

I won't do anything for you, love,

and yes,

it began with a one-night stand,

and a two-night stand,

'til you started staying over in the mornings,

drinking coffee by the counter.

And yes,

it hurts me when you (pretend to) sleep with other guys, because

**you are mine. **

But sometimes I look at you and I think

_you are imperfect,_

and I think,

_I couldn't care less. _

Love isn't perfection, after all. Far from it.

_We. Are. Love._

And no,

we're not controversial,

and we're not substandard,

and all those tabloids can go to fucking hell

if they care so much about where our love

sparked from.

Because that's the truth, isn't it?

Our love isn't pure.

It didn't come from angels' wings,

but angels' tears

as they still mourn for the brother who fell

(and is still falling).

Our love isn't a wish made on falling stars,

or even falling ashes,

because darling,

falling angels are so much rarer.

.

Thing is,

they told me I wasn't allowed to have you.

As if anyone could have you;

as if anyone could own

falling stars,

or wishes on nightingales and birthday cake candles.

As if someone could collect

every single four leaf clover in the world

and call themselves lucky.

After all,

if you collect every coin,

and fill every single jar,

then flip them all -

half are still going to be heads,

and the rest, tails.

That's just the rule, my love,

and loving you; loving you is boundless,

and rules?

What rules?

Rules imply that there's something to rule over, love.

Loving you is playing the drum,

looking though the barrel of a gun,

and wondering which beat is the loudest.


End file.
